


Reach a Little Bit Higher I thru IV

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Krycek drops in on Mulder after a long absence and finds a kink in his plan for a night of passion.





	Reach a Little Bit Higher I thru IV

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Reach a Little Bit Higher I by Catherine

"Reach a Little Bit Higher"  
(part 1 of ??)  
by Catherine

Disclaimer, etc: Mulder, Krycek, Scully, and anyone else whose name you recognize belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and the actors who play them (not necessarily in that order). Technically I am not supposed to be doing *anything* with them and I freely admit this; however, it is pointless to sue me since I am a college student. Anyone else, but especially Laura, belongs to me.  
This is NC-17 and slash: it features sex (not terribly explicit) between two men. If you are underage or this does not float your boat (although I don't know why you would have gotten on this list otherwise) turn back *right now*. You have been warned.  
The idea was Colleen's (thank you) but the execution with all its snags, wrinkles, and tears, is mine entirely. Since I wrote this in a bit of a hurry (a challenge I set to myself) there are no beta readers to thank, but constructive criticism is welcome and if I get enough of it I might do a second draft later. No grammatical nitpick too small, no philosophical issue too large. This is the first time I have ever written fanfic or sex of any variety, so be gentle. Relatively.  
The title and the song lyrics come from "Reach" by that prolific artist Godknowswho. I found it on a CD by an a capella group called Sixteen Feet from Swarthmore College. It is an awesome song. I don't know why they don't list the songwriters. If anyone recognizes it please let me know.  
Dedicated to Torch in the fond but probably fanciful hope that the flattery will make her hurry up with Ghosts III.   
Comments are welcome at , and will be forwarded to the author.  
OK. On with the show. (And by the way, congrats to Mr. Duchovny and Ms. Leoni. Bon chance!)

* * *

Sometimes I stop and wonder  
Why I can't let myself enjoy  
The space that I'm in,  
All the wonderful people  
My eyes are on the future  
But I can't think about my past  
My aspirations always exceed my grasp  
But you got to reach a little bit higher  
When the light within me comes to fire  
You've got to grow  
You've got to reach a little bit higher  
Stretch your soul, and you'll never grow old!

When the habits of a lifetime  
Become a painful cage  
And you want to break down  
But you don't know how to change  
And now you may have a vision  
And you may have a friend  
Who will come to you  
And set you straight once again  
You got to reach a little bit higher  
when the light within me comes to fire  
You've got to grow  
You've got to reach a little bit higher  
To get a hold on all that you desire  
Stretch your soul, and you'll never grow old!  
                        --"Reach" by ????

*****************

I am tired (as usual) and hungry (ditto). I usually am by this point. I don't know what it is about Fox Mulder's apartment -- after all, I can't count the number of times I have been beaten, handcuffed, and starved there. God knows I certainly never get any sleep when I spend the night in those three rooms on the fourth floor of a cheap walkup in Alexandria.

And yet, whenever the continual rush of running for my life starts getting old again, I find myself back here. Months usually pass between my visits; but when I am worn down, I can still recall the keycode he gave me in an unusually calm and tender moment.

I snort at the memory, as always. *Other* men, when they have calm and tender moments, will tell you they love you. Mulder gives out the keycode for his apartment building, as if I couldn't break in any time I wanted.

I guess that's why I keep coming back. I like having a place that I don't have to break into. It's unusual.

It's been over a year since I was last in the U.S., but I haven't forgotten it this time either. I smile, irony twisting my mouth into a rather unpleasant expression. I haven't forgotten *him* either. I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about the way he looked the last time I saw him. He was sprawled naked across the black couch, fast asleep but obviously having a pleasant dream. Not a frequent occurence. I've lost track, over the course of the last three years, of the number of times I've held him after a nightmare. He never remembers in the morning, of course, and I've always felt it would be rather crude to bring it up; but I feel an unaccountable warmth at the thought of Mulder having good dreams after a night lying - and sitting, and standing, and other things - in bed with me. I didn't have the heart to wake him up, but I had to leave. So I kissed him lightly on the lips and slipped out the front door.

Jesus Christ. I'm getting a hard-on thinking about Mulder having a good dream. I obviously need to get laid more often.

Fortunately, that shouldn't be a problem tonight. I know exactly what I'm going to do once I get up these damn stairs. Why can't they put elevators in this place? On the other hand, it's a lot harder to sabotage stairs so they collapse and drop you four stories to your death. I suppose we should be grateful for small blessings.

Anyway. Once I'm upstairs and in the apartment.... Who do I undress first, him or me? Decisions, decisions. In any case, I can think of the first place I'm going to kiss him. I love his collarbone -- it stand out in sharp relief from his shoulder -- the man is bony as anything, but I like that -- it makes me feel protective, he's so frail -- I mean, I know he's not, the man packs a hell of a punch and he can take more than anyone I've ever met except me, but I don't know where he gets it from since he feels like he should be floating away -- damn it, I'm losing my train of thought. Where was I?

Oh, right. The hollow above his collarbone, and then the one at the base of his neck, where you can rest your lips and feel the pulse of his life under them. Fluttering and generally (at this point) accelerating faster than a Jaguar, it never fails to make me think -- immediately -- of at least twenty places where my mouth needs to go next. 

I'm breathing hard when I finish the stairs, and it's not just from the exertion of the climb. Mulder had better not be asleep.

Of course he won't be, it's only two o'clock. And if there was a particularly boring infomercial, I can wake him up.

I smile to myself again, and this time there is no irony, just satisfaction. And why shouldn't I be smug? Fox Mulder will fuck me whenever I show up at his door. And I love it, and someday I think I'll stop tripping on danger altogether and settle down for good. A long way in the future, perhaps, but it's coming someday.

Here we are. Number 42. Mulder, Mulder, Mulder. I wonder if this was really the best apartment he could find, or if he just picked it for the number.

For courtesy's sake, I knock. Two years ago I made a replica of the key, and Mulder knows it, but I usually knock anyway. I enjoy a gun in my face as much as anyone, but I like to start my nights with Mulder on a slightly more civilized basis these days.

He's slow to answer, so I knock a little louder. Maybe he really is asleep; if he doesn't answer in a minute I'll go ahead and use the key.

But soon I hear feet coming towards the door. I frown slightly. They don't sound quite like I remember. I make myself relax as the chains are undone from the inside; it has been over a year after all. Details can change or be forgotten.

When the door opens, therefore, I am loose and smiling. That disappears pretty damn quickly. I almost curse. I almost draw my gun. I almost fall over from the shock.

I do none of these things. Instead I stand, rooted to the spot, and stare dumbly at the woman in the doorway. She is shorter than me, but not by much; her brown hair is short and tousled; she is wearing a securely tied bathrobe over a long nightgown; she is very very pretty. 

She is frowning at me, obviously wondering if I'm drunk or retarded, and I see she has her hand on the knob, ready to slam the door in my face if she has to. "Yes?" she says in a sleepy and impatient tone of voice.

I open my mouth. I close it again. I can see she is getting ready to close the door, so I open it again and this time manage to make some sound come out. "Umm.... I'm looking for Fox Mulder. I'm a friend of his." 

Her frown has deepened, but at least she isn't closing the door. "I'm sorry, he's out of town right now on a case." Then she does it. "Can I help you? I'm his wife."

Years and years and years of duplicity, and they are barely enough to allow me to keep from vomiting right there in the hall. I struggle. I do not scream and I do not collapse. I smile at her in what I hope is not too ghastly a parody of normal behavior. Normal? I am talking with my lover's wife at two A.M. in the hallway of an apartment building. Well, normal, all things considered. I force myself to stop mentally babbling.

"I'm sorry.... I'm a little surprised. We haven't seen each other in over a year and I had no idea that Mulder had married. I know this isn't exactly a normal hour.... I just got into town and Mulder used to let me sleep on his floor when I had to come to D.C. on very short notice." All true. I just left out some stuff. The quickest way to be believed is to tell the truth.

She looks a little less discomifited, and nods. She looks inquisitive and I realize she is waiting for something. What? I cast around in my brain desperately for what she might want. Oh. Right.

"I'm really sorry to have disturbed you."

"Don't worry about it. There's no way you could have known."

Her voice is crisp and clear, with no trace of inflection or accent. She sounds a little friendlier but her hand is still on the doorknob.

"I'll be going, then. I have some other people I can stay with. Sorry I woke you up."

She is about to say something else when we both hear a familiar tread coming up the stairs. I have stepped into a shadow before I even register consciously the fact that someone is arriving. So I get to watch Mulder come over the top of the staircase and see his wife. "Laura!" he says in surprise. "What --" 

He doesn't get any further, though, because I step out of my shadow and full into the light, and his face goes slack with shock.

I'll give him this -- he covers well, for someone who hasn't been an international double agent most of his life. I doubt even -- Laura --quite catches the expression of his face before it transforms to a regular interrogative.

I do, though. Fox Mulder is shaken to the insides of his beautiful bones, and for one split second he can't hide it from me.

[OK folks, I'm stopping here for the night. I've been at this for nearly two hours and I have work in the morning. Installment #2 will arrive as soon as it's written, which will probably be starting at 5 or 6 pm tomorrow night. Just in case anyone cares. -- Catherine]

 

* * *

 

"Reach a Little Bit Higher"  
Part 2 of ??  
by Catherine  
Disclaimer and credits in Part 1

* * *

He takes a second to collect himself. "Krycek," he states, striving for --and nearly succeeding at -- nonchalance.

"Yeah," I agree flatly, matching his tone. And the last time I saw you it was Alex, kiddo. So what happened?

"Long time no see," he says. "What's up?"

I want to laugh. I really do. Laura's presence is thick in the hallway, seeping through everything. "I just got into town and I was hoping to borrow your floor for the night. I didn't know...." My gesture takes in everything. I let some bitterness seep through the last sentence since Laura has turned slightly back into the apartment, fiddling with the doorknob and not really paying attention to us. Mulder and I stare at each other until she looks up again.

"Will you come in, Mr..." she trails off.

"Alex Krycek," I say, turning to look at her. It is obvious she has never heard the name before. "Thank you, but there's someone else I can stay with. I don't want to impose on you, *Mrs Mulder*. Sorry to have disturbed you." I push past Mulder, both of us flinching back from the inevitable contact in the tiny hallway. Just before ducking into the stairwell something occurs to me, and I turn back. "You can call me Alex," I say to Mulder's wife, and flee before I can see his expression.

Safe in the stairwell, I collapse against the wall, shaking slightly. I can hear Mulder shifting his feet in the hall, finally walking forward. I hear her say "Fox, I didn't expect you home until tomorrow! What happened?" I know when he kisses Laura, I know the precise moment. And I hear them going together into the apartment, I hear the closing door shut gently, with a faint and almost imperceptible click as the lock catches. I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that, if I felt like it, I could pick that lock.

***********

I am pounding on this door. I don't care anymore how many people I wake up tonight. This morning. Whatever. "Let me in!" I yell, beating harder on the wood of the door, so when it flies open I fall inside, barely catching myself before I land on my knees.

Her hair is tangled and she is wearing a robe tossed over wet skin. Oops. Interrupted a shower.

"Hi, Scully," I say weakly.

"Get inside," she hisses and yanks me in by the shoulder of my jacket, closing the door barely in time, just as other doors begin to open noisily along her hall. Safe inside the apartment, she releases me like a piece of hot metal and steps back, hands on her hips.

I am actually shuffling my feet. Why do I let her do this to me? Scully always makes me feel like I'm about ten years old and she does it effortlessly. I only put up with it because she has this way -- when I least expect it -- of looking right through me and actually *liking* what she sees. It doesn't happen often but it keeps me coming back for more. 

This is not one of those times. 

Finally she sighs. "OK, Krycek. Come have a beer and we'll talk." 

I follow her into the kitchen, where I discover that I am shaking again, so much that I can't even manage to open the beer. She watches me struggle silently and finally slam the can down on the table in frustration. And now that I'm here I've discovered I don't want to talk about this after all.

"So how'd the case go?" I venture.

She raises an eyebrow. She knows what I'm doing but she'll let me get away with it. "Going, Krycek. It's not finished yet. But Mulder wanted to get home tonight for some reason, so we drove. It's just in Raleigh, only took about five hours. It's a serial killer, not an X-File but VC requested Mulder's help. We've finished all the interviewing down there. We have some stuff to run through the lab, I had a couple things to take care of before I move to Raleigh for the next few weeks, and Mulder wanted to make sure his fish were being fed." She looks at me under her lashes.

It's such an obviously leading statement that I nearly laugh. Suddenly I can't stay in my seat any longer, I'm filled with nervous energy. I jump up and start pacing, three steps each way from counter to wall and back. Scully watches me. "OK, fair's fair. You told me your story, I'll tell you mine. I got into town about an hour and a half ago. I stopped by Mulder's in the hope that he'd have a spare room --" she rolls her eyes "-- but it had been rented already."

I pace a few more times before I crack. "He's *married*, Scully! *Married* for chrissakes! Why did he do that?"

"Krycek," she says. "You disappeared for an awfully long time, you know that? You didn't even say goodbye and that scared the shit out of him. Out of us. You didn't get in touch and for all he knew you were dead."

"He *knows* I can't contact him because it's too dangerous! He always knew that!" 

She's angry now and her voice is rising in pitch and volume. "Then maybe you should have come back more often! The first four months after you left were *hell*! He doesn't talk to me but I'm his partner and I knew he was on the verge of breakdown. I finally dug it out of him that he had woken up and you just -- were gone." She stares at me to let the point sink in. I feel sick. I thought he understood the way I operated. She is talking again. "Are you listening to me? And you didn't come back for months and months, much longer than you'd ever been gone before. To the best of his knowledge you were either dead or had left him for good. Can you really blame him for going on with his life? When he met Laura and didn't drop her after one date I was happy I nearly cried. They were married two months ago. She is intelligent and sweet. She is a District police officer in Ward 8, so she sees things as sickening and weird as any X-file, but she is strong. She keeps herself *and* Mulder on an even keel."

My voice cracks. "She called him Fox! *He lets her call him FOX!*"

Oh my God. I'm crying. I'm crying.

I don't see Scully get out of her chair but suddenly she is there, stroking my hair, her arms around me. "Oh, Alex. Alex, Alex, Alex. It's all OK, it'll be alright." She gives up on words and descends into those little soothing sounds we make to comfort, clicking her tongue. I used to do this to Mulder in the night. Oh no. Don't go there. Don't go there.

I sob into the shoulder of her already wet bathrobe, which is now totally soaked. Finally I wrest myself back into control and pull away. "I'm sorry I interrupted your shower, Scully. You should go change your clothes," I mumble.

She almost slaps me. "Oh no. Oh no, Alex, you're not getting away that easily." Her voice gentles. "He means that much to you?"

I give her my best smile. "No, really, Scully. I was just kind of taken aback, a little shocked, I guess. Mulder moved on with his life, fine, I can move on with mine." I smile again.

She looks skeptical, but I think she's buying it. I hold my breath. When she nods slowly I offer prayers of thanks to seven different deities in the hope that I get the right one. "OK, Krycek. Tell you what -- it's late and we're both over-emotional from exhaustion. You know where everything is, right?" I nod. I once spent twenty minutes alone in Scully's apartment when Mulder took her to pick up the Chinese food, and I didn't waste it. "You can have the couch, then. I'll see you in the morning and we can talk more then."

"Thanks, Scully," I say in real gratitude. "See you in the morning."

She nods. "Good night, Alex." She hesitates, then gives me a quick hug before leaving the kitchen. I wait until I'm sure she's out of sight to collapse against the counter.

That was close. That was way too close. Why the hell did I come here? Scully is so good at wiggling around until she gets to the truth. She does it every day of her life. Mulder used to be so easy to put off -- a story, a kiss, a tiny little lie. Scully sees right through stories, and I have to stifle a hysterical giggle at the thought of trying to kiss her. Thank God she trusts me enough now to believe me when I lie.

It's a few minutes before I feel I can stand without the counter's support. Finally I push myself up and walk into the living room, ignoring the toppled chairs and spilled beer in the kitchen. Scully has tossed a blanket onto the couch, for which I am grateful. I get really cold when I sleep alone.

I lie down, but I can't seem to keep still. I roll, I turn, I shift position. Once I fall off the couch. When I do it again ten minutes later I decide to stay, pushed between couch and coffee table. Lying in small spaces like this always makes me feel safe, like infants in swaddling clothes. As long as I have enough light to know I can get out again.

Mulder knew about that. He's not a cuddler by nature but after the first time I asked him to hold me while we slept, his arms encircled me every night I spent there. He became my safe haven, the heaviness of his body felt good on me. He is a natural protector and when he fails to keep something safe it torments him. It's what makes him such a good FBI agent.

The last time that I came to Mulder's home I closed my eyes and kissed, licked, and sucked every inch of his body. I did it slowly, stopping at several points along the way and concentrating on particular places until he cried "Alex!" and came. For the first few hours he kept reaching out, trying to touch me too, but I made him stop, holding his hands down.

Eventually he acquiesced, lay there quietly and let me move across him, sliding my lips and tongue over everything carefully, not missing a spot. I built his body and face in my mind like a police artist molding plastic clay over a skull, extrapolating features from bone structure alone, the remnants and the base of expression. When I was finished I could see him, I knew I could call him up in my mind no matter where I was, no matter what I was doing or having done to me. This is what it is to live in darkness: nothing ever changes. After the silo I understood that and I know that I cannot live through that again. So, although it took me years to be sure, when I was I went to Mulder and I made certain that he would never leave my mind. He was the one thing I wanted to remain constant in a universe where to be alive is to change.

Oh, God, Mulder, how could you? 

I am shaking again, dimly aware in the back of my mind that this time it is only my shoulders and it is because I am weeping, noisily, into Scully's rug.

Through nausea and misery I gradually awaken to the fact that someone is there, sitting in a chair across the coffee table and watching me with compassion and terrible understanding.

I sit up, take a tissue from the box she shoves across the table to me, and blow my nose. I know my eyes are red and I know I look hideous, glaring resentfully across the table.

"So will you tell me the truth now?" she asks and I know that this time I can't dodge. She already knows what I'm supposed to tell her and the worst part is she knew it all along. She didn't believe me at all when I told her my nice little lie. 

"What did you do, hide out around the corner and wait for me to break down?" I say sarcastically.

"Yes," Scully replies simply. "Come on, Alex, I've been partnered with Fox Mulder, master of repression, for nearly seven years now. I know when someone is lying to me about what upsets them. So spill it. I just want to hear you say it."

We have a staring match, which is a lost cause from the start. Finally I turn my back. I don't have to look at her if I don't want to.

"I don't want him sleeping with anyone but me."

I can hear Scully trying not to laugh. "And?"

"And I miss him."

"Better. And?"

"And...and...dammit! All right!" My voice is rising but I don't care who I wake up anymore. She wants the truth? All right, she can have it. All of it. "I need him to be there when I am tired of running for my life, and I need him to be wearing awful ties and cracking bad jokes and I need him to kiss me and fuck me and hold on to me because it makes me feel safe and protected. I need to know when I am hiding in small dark places and it scares me that I can always come back when I need a rest, I need him to lock his door against the whole fucking world and concentrate all of his energy on me. Has he ever done that to you? It makes me feel like a butterfly pinned in a box, but somehow it doesn't scare me because I know he'd never hurt me. Not now. Not anymore." I am breathing hard and I have swung around, staring at her, chest heaving like I've run the Boston Marathon. "OK? Happy? Satisfied?"

The look of compassion in her eyes is what undoes me. "Just one more thing, Alex. That's all. Just one more."

I close my eyes in defeat. "And I love him. And I need him to love me." I whisper it into the dead air around me and slump back against the wall.

And Scully is there, holding me, holding me tightly like a small child, and I nearly kiss her, after all.

*********  
end part 2

 

* * *

 

"Reach a Little Bit Higher"  
Part 3 of 5  
by Catherine  
For disclaimers see part 1.  
Part 3 had the following beta readers: Maria and Callisto. Thank you, ladies.  
I am *so sorry* this took so long. I really hope it is kind of worth the wait.  
This, btw, is the Sex Part. Pun completely intentional :) So minors and easily offended people, TURN BACK NOW. I mean it.

* * *

I wake up instantly, like always. Mulder has the same habit; he can go from REM to peak performance in seconds if he has to. I wonder (not idly) if Laura shares that trait.

No, I know she doesn't because she was falling asleep the whole time we talked last night.

I'm on Scully's couch again and my mouth tastes *terrible*. One of the drawbacks of waking up so fast is that you aren't allowed minutes at a time of forgetfulness about what you had dragged out of you the night before. I remember exactly what I said and I have a feeling that today won't be very pleasant.

I groan and turn back over, but I haven't been sunk in that gorgeously slothful state of returning to bed for more than ten minutes before a fully-dressed, perfectly made up Scully is shaking my shoulder and smiling cheerfully at me.

So I throw a pillow at her. "Mulder always used to let me sleep late," I grouse. He used to join me back in bed, too.

I feel oddly comfortable now that the truth is out between me and Scully. Maybe it's just that last night hasn't fully hit me yet, but I'm not really angry with her anymore.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she says brightly. I wrinkle my nose and glare. "Come *on*, Krycek, time for breakfast."

She takes me to brunch at a nearby place with incredible scones. I'm relaxing in the sunshine when she says casually, "Laura is on duty today, you know." I sit bolt upright and *look* at her. "You can't avoid him for long," she says, giving the Doctor Look right back. "You hurt him, Alex, and eventually you'll have to face him. Especially if what you told me last night is true."

I sigh. She's right. And somehow, in the sun, in the morning light, I feel more confident. I'll go and talk to him. And maybe do some other things. It certainly can't hurt to try.

**********

Mulder's door opens after only one knock. If I didn't know better I'd say he was waiting for me. "Krycek," he says in the same flat tone he used last night, acknowledging my presence without really telling me what he's thinking. 

I roll my eyes. If he's going to start every conversation this way we'll never get anywhere. "Alex," I suggest, and put my fingertips lightly on his chest. 

He's fully clothed but he recoils as if I were trying to rape him, which is what I expected. Before he can recover I'm past him and into the apartment, shutting the door behind me. "We need to talk, Mulder."

"I'm not so sure we do -- *Krycek*."

But he's not getting rid of me today. Oh no. I have a mission, after all. "Can I sit down?" I ask, ignoring his statement.

He hesitates for a long moment and I think I might really have to leave, but I keep my body language confident and eventually he nods, his face blank.

I promptly avail myself of the couch, which has more than enough room for other occupants.

Mulder sits down in the chair. The one on the far side.

OK, that's all right, I can handle that. I didn't think this would be a piece of cake, after all.

A tiny voice whispers <Didn't I?> but I squash it quickly. That is *not* the path to a successful seduction. Which is what I'm aiming at here. <Is it?> Oh, for Christ's sake.

I'm about to make a smart remark but I get caught up in the rhythm that long, impatient fingers are tapping out on his thigh. He would have made a great pianist, I bet. I can imagine him playing Mozart or better yet Bach in some concert hall in Europe. Rachmaninoff would have been too sticky for Mulder, but Bach, Bach -- it would soar to angelic heights but remain firmly centered in the earth. Bach is my favorite composer because he reminds me of Gothic cathedrals: a sort of stone which has elements of air and earth and is comfortable with both, not torn between them but rather a marriage, a symphony in stone. He doesn't overwhelm his audience with emotion, he transmutes the flood from heaven until we can understand it all, and lets it loose gently and with love. The music of Bach is not tormented, as is that of Mozart. He learned to live in his dual priesthood. Mulder might have been as great, if his shattered mind had ever healed.

Dammit! I can't keep losing myself in him. I *can't*. I've been gaping at him like an idiot! I have to say something. Anything.

"So how'd you meet her, Mulder?" My voice is more belligerent than I had intended. His eyes go even blanker, which I wouldn't have thought possible.

"On a case." His voice is nasty, and I know he is mostly responding to my own tone, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. "She was an investigating officer and when the FBI was called in they sent it down to me. Something about live squid. Want details?"

I shake my head silently, a little taken aback by his antagonism.

"No? OK, would you like to hear about the first time we had sex?"

"NO!" I say, nearly jumping off the couch, and he doesn't bother to mask the satisfaction in his expression. So this is how he's going to deal with this. Just pretend it's all my fault and punish me, right, Mulder? Haven't we been in this scenario before?

<Well, isn't it all your fault?>

I'm starting to feel irrationally aggressive. No, it is *not* all my fault. I just operated like I always have, and Mulder flew off the handle. I decide it is definitely time to get onto less shaky ground, ignoring the fact that I put myself there in the first place.

Before I can open my mouth, though, his eyes flash. "You didn't even call, Krycek! It's been over a year since I've seen or heard from you. Did you expect me to just wait around until you decided to come fuck me again?" The anger in his voice is overwhelming, and suddenly all my defenses are gone. I can say anything I want to Scully, or to Mulder, or to myself for that matter, but looking at his face I know that all that matters is that I hurt him. 

I want him so much I can taste it. 

I realize that he has been waiting for me to answer him. I try frantically to frame a suitable response, preferably one that will get me back inside his pants as soon as possible. I can't come up with one, though, and suddenly he makes a gesture of impatience and disgust, and starts to get up.

Faster than lightening. Faster than a speeding bullet. Like a striking snake. I feel like an actor in a bad B movie as I leap over the little table and straddle Mulder's knees in the deep armchair, sitting on his lap and effectively preventing him from leaving the room without using force. Before he even has time to consider that option, I put one hand on each side of his head and kiss him.

It's a hard kiss, my tongue forcing his lips open underneath it. I have to fight him every step of the way but finally I'm in and once I'm there he only resists for a moment longer before he gives up and is kissing me back. I have my eyes closed because I don't want to see his face. I hate betraying Mulder -- it didn't use to bother me so much but it does now --and I don't think I could live with the look I know is in his eyes. 

When I finally end the kiss and pull back, breathing hard, I steel myself to open my eyes, and cringe. Uh huh. His eyes are hurt and angry, and now that I'm so close I can see they are red-rimmed as if he hasn't slept much. Before I can follow that line of thought -- why not? --I have to return to the irises, deep opaque green that manage to radiate outrage and conceal his inner thoughts at the same time. 

They used to clear for me, to allow me access to the depths of his brain. Suddenly I am more determined than ever to see that again. I *will* get him back. I *will*.

"Mulder," I say softly. He has been staring at me like a man bound to the Sirens' spell, frozen in place on the chair. But when I speak he comes to himself again and flinches back, pulling as far away from me as he can.

That isn't very far, and I lean even closer. I slide my hands under his shirt and run them up lightly over his skin. He's burning up, as usual; another near-crippling memory strikes me as I begin to stroke harder. The first time I felt the tender skin of his sides I jerked my hands from under his shirt and felt his forehead, sure he had a high fever. I figured out pretty soon that it was his natural temperature. Someday he will burn himself out from within, a forest fire that will light the sky as no alien ship ever has.

I'm amazed that he hasn't even tried a token verbal protest, though he must know that what's about to happen is inevitable. Maybe he's decided just to give in and enjoy it for once? 

Oh no. He has something in mind. I know he does. But I'm going to enjoy a pliant Mulder under me for as long as I can. I want to pull his T-shirt over his head, but his hands have a death grip on the arms of the chair, so I settle for pulling the neck of the shirt down his chest. I'm probably stretching it beyond further wear, but I don't care. I put my lips to his collarbone, just like I planned last night, and slide them slowly along to the base of his throat. Oh yes. Yesyesyesyesyes. Oh, Mulder, admit it. I can feel your heartbeat, it's inside my mouth, you want this. You want this. I move my hands to the buckle of his belt. 

I swear he really *does* move as fast as lightening. When my conscious mind has caught up with the rest of me, I understand that he has jerked sharply backwards, toppling the chair and using the momentum to tumble over me with the move of a gymnast or a wrestler and land lightly on my chest, pinning me down. At the time, all I know is a sensation of falling and the thought flashes through my mind that perhaps Mulder has shot me, and I am dead.

I look up at him with the breath knocked out of me by his abrupt landing on my stomach. His hair is tousled, his color is high and his eyes are black, black, black, the pupils hugely dilated until they completely block the irises. He looks a little confused; I sense that now that he's got the upper hand, he doesn't know how to deal with it.

When I can breathe again, a remarkably short time considering that I am lying under Fox Mulder for the first time in over a year, I arch my hips upward sharply. Another surprise; he wasn't expecting that. He is pinning my arms down, more or less doing a pushup over my body, and I know he can't last much longer in that position anyway. So I bring my feet up over his back and push down hard. He collapses on top of me and I take the opportunity to free my hands. Too late, Fox.

I roll us over so that I am on top again. 

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I should have called. I should have written. I should have come home sooner. But I really didn't understand how much I was hurting you." And every word of that is true. Every single word. His eyes are still angry. I shake my head in frustration and look straight at him, holding his eyes so he can see I'm not lying. "I'm *sorry*," I repeat with more force. "Please don't be angry."

I lower my head and kiss him again before he has time to speak. This time I simply put my lips on his. Eyes closed again, I just wait, holding my breath. I can feel him hesitating under my mouth, then he opens his lips and takes my tongue inside. His body becomes pliant, not slowly but all at once. My body feels that I am forgiven. (Just like that? If he lets everyone go as easily as this, it's more than a wonder that he's not dead by now. It's a fucking miracle. Just at the moment, though, I"m grateful for his capacity to forgive. And he *can* trust me, after all.) He gives himself to me again -- this time, anyway.

This time is all I care to think about right now.

"Can I undress you?" I ask quietly, humbly almost, now that I'm sure I'll get the right answer. He smiles at me, and my heart skips two full beats before getting back on course.

"What do you think?" he says.

"I think *yes*," I say, and I lift the T-shirt over his head. He obligingly raises his arms to help. 

Don't laugh, but I think I like Mulder's chest better than *any* lower region of his body. Flat swimmer's muscle covers everything, and the bone structure is clearly defined underneath. He feels like a boa constrictor does to hold -- a ribbon of muscle coursing and coursing through my arms. His pants are riding low on his hips, and elegant, tapered fingers are sliding along my back, divesting me of my shirt. A sudden thought occurs to me. I'd lay odds that Laura doesn't sleep on the couch with him. And I'm tired of getting rugburn.

Mulder is engrossed in kissing his way along my shoulder when I gently pull away. He looks up with huge eyes. "Where do you think *you're* going?" he asks sharply.

I put my hands up in mock-surrender. "To find the bed! That's *all*," I say lightly. A dangerous moment, this. It has to be handled with care. I watch Mulder come abruptly to the realization that he is about to commit adultery. If he's left to himself I think honor might win out, so I gently trail a fingertip over his bare shoulder. I win again. He gets up gracefully and says, almost grudgingly, "Close your eyes." 

I obey and he takes my shoulders, his chest pressing into my back. I can feel his erection through the heavy cloth of his jeans and mine. He steers me out of the room, and for one moment I wonder if he'll push me out a window or something. The thought almost makes my eyes fly open reflexively, but I manage to keep them shut. 

We stop moving and I feel him undoing my belt, running the zipper on my jeans down, guiding them down my legs. His hands deliberately rub against my bare skin, and I shiver through my whole body. He stops abruptly and I can almost see him looking up.

"Something wrong?" he asks, really meaning it. I shake my head, lying to him again.

"Someone just walked over my grave," I answer.

"Mmmmm. Lift your foot," he says by way of reply. I do and he manages to get me totally out of my pants and underwear without me falling over. I am still standing, passive, eyes closed. He lets me go for a couple of seconds and then suddenly I am picked up, whisked through the air, and dropped. My eyes really do open in alarm this time, but before I can get worried I've landed on a quilt. In a real bed. With Mulder. Who has undressed himself completely at some point.

Since my eyes are at the level of his chin right now, I start there. I kiss it, and then his neck, and then along one shoulder and down, down, down. Mulder draws his breath in sharply when I get to the area just below his waistline. His hands start to play across my back, tracing a pattern like delicate filigree in fire across my skin. Oh yeah, a great pianist. Lord, but he tastes good. Like cinnamon and cloves and raspberries. I feel a twinge of jealousy -- someone else has been tasting him recently. I bite down gently, just to mark out my territory, smiling ironically to myself as I acknowledge the immaturity of the action. Mulder doesn't know what I'm thinking, though, and he gives a little jerk of surprise.

I've been teasing him too long, his fingers are starting to press on my back. I don't have it in me to deny him anything right now, so I dip my head lower and take his cock in my mouth. I shiver again, but he is clearly not going to ask what's wrong this time and I don't want him to. Nothing is wrong right now. Nothing.

I kiss and kiss and kiss as he starts to move under me, undulating faster and faster in the bed, stroking any part of me he can get his hands on. I'm in as much of a frenzy as he is, it's been too long, I love him, I can't take it --

I am arching through the skies with music sounding clearly in my ears.

I collapse in astonished surprise. Mulder is looking at me, eyes wide with shock.

I just came from sucking Mulder off. Jesus Christ on a crutch.

"I love you," I say as fast as I can, and duck my head down to take him in my mouth again, too afraid to look at his eyes.

He won't let me finish him off, though, his hands are twining in my hair, strong fingers pulling until I have to let go and come up to face him.

"Alex," he says in a strange voice. "Say that again, please."

"I love you?" I try in an uncertain tone. 

He doesn't answer, instead he pulls me close and kisses me with some force. 

I wish he would say something, anything, because I feel like I'm walking on water. But when I try to open my mouth against his to say something --don't ask me what -- he forces his tongue deeper in, which sets off a shock wave in my brain. His hands run along the curve of my back, reaching down to caress my ass briefly and tantalizingly before stroking my hips.

He certainly knows how to keep me from talking, I think. I wish my brain would shut up. If Mulder would just touch my cock that wouldn't be a problem anymore -- GOD.

Great minds think alike, I suppose.

He runs his hands over my ass again in a slow and considering fashion.

OK, I've already come, that means he's going to fuck me. Fine. Good. Great. I have no problem with that. One hand keeps traveling up and down my spine, gathering enough energy to give me a miniature electric shock. I didn't know that the friction between skins was enough to do that.

His other hand is reaching out blindly, knocking assorted junk off the night stand until he comes up with a jar of Vaseline. Not my favorite, but it will do. I'm holding his eyes to mine and I feel a tiny thrill to know that he honestly can't look away. He stares at me the entire time he is opening the jar, scooping out the lubricating grease, and stroking it onto himself. When he slides around to my front and takes his hands down my back to anoint me with the Vaseline, I start at the cold shock. He actually needs to stretch me open, it's been a few months since I've done this. I realize suddenly that it's not for lack of opportunity. I've simply wanted to make love to fewer and fewer people the longer I've known Fox Mulder. 

"How do you want me?" I ask when I know I'm ready, and he has to recall the words. I didn't think it was possible for pupils to be that wide. 

"Stay on your back," he says, still in that otherworldly voice. I'm happy with that, I love to watch him as he dives farther and farther into the oblivion where he controls nothing and understands everything. That's how he put it to me, once a long time ago it seems. I draw my legs up a little more to make it easier for him, and he slides between them and into me slowly until we are locked together, a piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

He starts to move in and out, eyes attached to mine still. We're holding hands, two sets of bony fingers twining around each other. I wonder if we could learn that special sign language that Helen Keller used, done holding hands because she couldn't see or hear. I gave up talking during sex with Mulder a long time ago, it seemed like a waste of breath when our hands were already saying it all.

I watch his face closing in on itself, screwing his eyes shut as he moves faster, harder, faster, harder, faster, harder, faster, harder -- his eyes fly open, wells of absolute clarity sinking to the bottom of his soul, and hot liquid fills me as he screams my name and collapses on my chest.

I am so far gone that I could be mistaken, but I think I hear him say "I missed you so much," into my neck, and I think I feel scalding tears on my skin for the briefest of moments.

It's a while before anyone moves. Finally he pulls out and rolls off me. I give a soft cry of protest -- I like the way he feels on top of me -- but he shushes me and cradles me in his arms, warm. Of course, he already knows to do that. Oh, how I love this place, this man with the perfect memory.

I slip my arms around his back and hug him hard. "I feel *good*," I say.

He says in an amused tone of voice, "I wasn't planning to do this."

"I was," I say lazily, smugly because I know I can get away with it, stretching like a cat against the bonds of his arms.

He actually laughs. "I just bet you were," he replies. "Scully give you some advice on technique?"

I turn over and hit his chest in mock outrage. "How dare you think I would talk about this to a lady!"

"Of course, you're the perfect gentleman," he says, still laughing.

I still suddenly. "I'd do anything for you," I say with a surge of emotion.

There is a tense moment -- and he breaks the mood, singing, "Would you climb a tree?" I almost cry. But if he doesn't feel the same way I do, it would be too much to bear to have him think I really meant that, so I pull myself together and sing the next line from the song. 

Mulder falls asleep first. I lie awake in his arms for awhile. Then I recall the fact that I've gotten Mulder into bed again within twenty-four hours. If I just work at it long enough he'll come around. I *know* he will. He has to.

I drift into a light sleep with a smile on my face to match my lover's.. I feel so good. So good.

When the telephone rings I barely hear it. The only thing I understand is that my back is cold, because Mulder has gotten up to answer the persistent noise. After a while I realize that he hasn't come back to bed, and then I really wake up, come awake as I usually do to total awareness. Part of me wonders why I hadn't done so before, but I shut it down ruthlessly for later attention, because Mulder is sitting in the middle of the floor staring at the phone in his hand. His face is paper-white. I scramble out of bed as fast as I can, cursing when my foot gets caught in a twisted sheet, and get over to him.

"Mulder, what happened?" I say in real alarm. He focuses in suddenly and twists away from my touch as if I were seeping poison, skidding across the floor. He glares at me with such frightening malevolence that I flinch away before I catch myself. "Laura's been shot," he says in a strangled and furious voice. "They airlifted her to the trauma unit at the Hospital Center and they're operating right now." His eyes bore into me, accusing me as if somehow I could have made things different, and I take two steps backwards and sit down on the edge of the bed. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. And everything goes fuzzy, like background radiation on a TV screen, and I put my head between my knees before I can pass out.

[End Part 3]

 

* * *

 

Reach A Little But Higher Part Four

Now. This is Part 4 of 5 of "Reach a Little Bit Higher". You are probably wondering what the hell is going on. I will tell you :) I decided to rewrite Part 4 to include all the things I was planning for Part 5, since I discovered I needed to change a couple things about the ending in order to make everything fit together. This is a lesson to me: never, ever post before you're *sure* you know what you want to happen in the next part. Of course I intend to cheerfully ignore it. Frequently. <g> Anyway, it will be worth your while to reread this part -- much of the plot, dialogue, etc, etc, is identical to the old Part 4, but if you miss the plot developments in this part you will never get Part 5, the conclusion, which I hope to have finished soon. Sorry so much about the mistake; I'll try not to make this happen very often.

For disclaimers and credits, see Part 1. Your beta reader this evening has been Maria -- thank you!

Trumpets is a well-known gay bar near Dupont Circle, the homosexual mecca of Washington D.C. The Cairo is a well-known gay apartment building, ditto. Anacostia=Ward 8, the most violent and troubled part of the District.

By the way -- Part 4 contains m/m sex of a slightly rougher variety, in addition to some violence and much Angst on the parts of both M and K. This part is NC-17. If any of this is making you nervous, hit that "delete" button *now*. I mean it. Thank you and have a nice day.

On with the show.

* * *

"Reach a Little Bit Higher" Part 4  
by Catherine

I would be sprinting down the hall if I thought I wouldn't be thrown out. I have held my control through two hours' worth of slow buses, traffic jams, and late trains, and I am ready to move as fast as my body can do it. Instead I hold my pace to a steady four-and-a-half-per-hour and try hard not to push the nurses and gurneys out of my way. Inside the elevator it takes all my concentration not to jiggle from foot to foot, a habit that used to drive my teachers crazy and which I thought they had beaten out of me.

When I ask at the nurses' station they tell me a room number, but refuse to let me know anything about her condition. I follow the brightly painted signs along the corridors until I turn a corner and see Mulder pacing. I duck back behind the wall and look out cautiously. He doesn't know I'm there -- he looks just like he did two hours ago, dressing and taking the car with such single-minded swiftness that I was left gasping in the wreck of their bed, naked and utterly alone.

He is very precise in his pacing. I can almost see his unconscious mind ticking it off: six steps, left foot landing on the edge of the carpet, turn about, six steps, right foot on the penny that someone has carelessly dropped to find a new life as the barrier which Mulder's sanity is currently defending. If it weren't there, I recognize with a sick feeling, he would walk right into the wall which is the end of the straight line his feet are walking, and keep going.

The steady rhythm of his feet draws me in; I know I shouldn't do this in a hospital where his wife is maybe dying, but I can't stop myself from admiring the way he walks. He could be a runway model -- hips swaying, jacket thrown over one shoulder, the whole bit, if he were smiling that is, and not staring at the carpet as if his best friend had just died -- oh god. God help me if she's died, because Mulder will never let me near him again. I don't know if I could live like this, eternally trailing him, catching glimpses around corners, never allowed to touch him. I know damn well I couldn't live without even seeing him. So I pray hard that she is still alive, and on that thought perhaps I move unconsciously, because he sees me. His head jerks up and his eyes go cold, and he stops pacing. I take a careful step back.

"What the hell are you doing here?," he demands in a harsh whisper. Just then a nurse pushes a wheelchair between us, heading for the elevators, and I am spared answering for a moment while I rehearse my reply.

"I wanted to know how Laura was," I say in a carefully neutral tone, proud that my voice doesn't stumble over her name. I am afraid for a second that even this is pushing too far with Mulder; his eyes flash and his fists tighten at the sound of her name, but I glare back at him and he responds as I expected, as everyone does, by backing down. He turns away suddenly and walks down the hall. Caught flat-footed, I have to follow him for three or four minutes before understanding our destination. We are heading for the trauma unit, where Laura is surely staying. My guess proves to be correct; Mulder stops next to one door, hesitates briefly, pain streaking across his face, and turns the handle.

Chin set, I follow him in.

We face each other across the empty hospital bed. "She's in surgery now," Mulder says. "They sent me away but I couldn't get any farther than the elevator bank." The rough bitter tone in his voice is like a knife edge across my mind. "It'll be quiet in here for a while. They said the procedure would take at least four hours and she's only been here for two. So you've got plenty of time to answer my questions, Krycek." His mouth twists and he spits out my name with enough venom to make me shrink back. "Such as WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?" Suddenly shouting, he gets one knee on the bed as if he's about to come across and attack me, but instead he takes the edge of the mattress in a death grip. I am silent, trying to frame a reply that won't make him even more angry. He's not listening anyway, caught up in the maelstrom of guilty pain that marks his life over and over. He's speaking again, his voice incoherent and choked at first, but gradually gaining more power, and all the time his eyes are boring into me, bright with tears and hatred. "Why?" he whispers. "I don't understand you. You take what you want and leave nothing for anyone else. You don't care about my happiness at all -- as soon as you see that someone else has got something you don't, you take it from them. You made me fuck you this afternoon because you couldn't stand it that Laura had me and you didn't. You don't want me, you just want control of me the way you want control of everything else. You cheat, you lie, you steal. You kill people." His voice breaks and he loses control for a moment, face contorting in an effort not to cry. I am pinned against the wall, utterly powerless to move or speak, to defend myself. I think I'm in shock, I can't move. I might not be the saintliest person in the world, but I don't deserve this. I don't. <Do I?> I don't think he can say anything worse, but when he opens his mouth again, I understand that I was wrong.

"God help me," he says, "I used to think you cared for me. I...thought I was more than just good in bed for you. I thought we had cleared up our past, were focused on a future together. Scully liked you. Even Skinner, for chrissakes, was starting to come around. And then you disappeared -- and when you come back this is the first thing you do. I keep asking myself how you fooled me twice: once when I first knew you and then again, now. Where did you get your acting degree from?

"You tried to have her killed this afternoon because I was happy with her and you didn't want anyone to be happy since you weren't. So you had me fuck you this morning while you sent someone -- who was it, Krycek, did Luis not die? did you choose to let him live so he could make himself useful? who did you pick to use this time? -- to kill her. Tell me this, Krycek --" my name like machine-gun fire "-- why this of all days is the one she was shot. Make me believe the lie. Tell me you didn't have a damn thing to do with it." He stares at me, aggressive, challenging. I lick my lips. My vocal chords don't seem to be working.

"Mulder, I swear, I didn't have anything to do with it. I wouldn't do that to you -- not now -- I swear --"

I don't know what I'm about to say, but Mulder cuts me off before it can come out of my mouth. "Tell me so I can throw it back in your face! You're a worthless user, lazy, selfish, egocentric, corrupt and evil," he spits, sobbing. "I don't know why I ever loved you." He turns away in disgust. I stare at his back, unmoving. His head slowly sinks to his chest. "Go away, Krycek. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you...." He repeats it over and over, a mantra, and finally I can't bear it anymore and I close my eyes tight, curl over myself, and press my hands against my ears to shut it out. But his voice is in my mind, I can't get rid of it. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you...."

I shake my head hard, dispelling the memory, and set off a sharp pain in my forehead. I throw back another shot of scotch, which is warm going down and dulls the pain. Fuzzily, I look around carefully. I'm out. I need more alcohol and I need it fast. I make a little signal, and the bartender breaks off his flirtation with the group of men at the end of the bar and comes over. He and I are old fucks -- I mean friends -- I mean we've known each other a long time. A real long time. I helped get him this job at Trumpets a few years ago after a particularly good night. Or maybe day, I'm not sure. I used to go in for a lot of wild stuff, including lunch-hour sex -- well, ok, I still do, but not with just anyone -- no, I don't want to think about that. I want another drink. Why the hell is Tony shaking his head?

"Sorry, Alexei, I can't do it. You're wrecked, I don't think I should have given you as much as I did." His words echo hollowly in my brain.

"You can't do this, Tony," I say, a little louder than I had intended. "I won't drive, I swear -- call me a cab now -- just let me drink until it comes. Please, Tony. Please?"

He shakes his head. "I can't. I don't want a trip to the emergency room -- the cops are already on us about indecency, this would give them one more excuse to take away the liquor license....." His words are fading out. It's too much trouble to put them together, to understand them.

My head is spinning and when someone puts his hand on my shoulder I almost throw up on him. Thank god I don't, because the first thing he says is "Wanna dance?" I look him in the eye and make an effort not to slur. "No," I say. "I wanna fuck."

It turns out he lives in the Cairo, on the third floor of all places. For some reason this strikes me as particularly funny, and finally, about half-way to being naked, I remember that the third floor was where I had an apartment for about two months, before they caught up with me. That was a nice time.... I drag my attention back to what I'm doing, which is ripping buttons straight off since I can't seem to get them through the holes. He's nice-looking, about five-ten or eleven, built, with deep brown skin and hair in little tiny braids. Yeah, he'll do. I finally manage the shirt and jeans, and stumble over them getting to the bed, where I flop face-down before I do it inadvertently. "Fuck me," I say into the pillow. "Don't kiss me, don't stroke me, just fucking do it. Hard." In a few seconds he's in, hard, thank you god he remembered a condom because I completely forgot and he's doing what I asked him to hell this will hurt in the morning but I don't give a fuck, I'm not hard at all and I mock myself silently -- so drunk I can't even get it up -- as I lie under him. He pounds in and out until he comes into me, and then he pulls out and rolls over.

"Hey," he says, and then stops, laughs a little. "I don't know your name yet." "Alex," I choke out between sobs. I'm soaking his pillow with tears.

I don't think he knew I was crying. Suddenly he's stroking my back, gently. I shake him off with as much force as I can muster. "I told you not to do that!" I get out. "Just give me a second...." Eventually I get myself under control again. When I push myself up, he's leaning on one elbow, watching me with blurry concern. "Go to sleep," I mutter, totally drained. "Really. I'm sorry." When he's finally asleep I stand up. Then I sit down. A couple minutes later I try again, more slowly, and this time make it up. It takes a while to get dressed -- my hands don't seem to want to go where my brain is telling them -- but finally I'm dressed and letting myself out. I don't glance back to where I'm sure whoever-he-is is sprawled across the bed, sleeping the sleep of the sated.

When I get back to the hospital I am marginally more sober -- enough so that I can at least think in complete sentences, if not speak them. It's nearing midnight now; I have to concentrate to sneak past the guards and the night nurses, but, weaving just a little, I manage. Barely. I slip silently along the corridors, keeping to the shadows, and make my way slowly but steadily towards the trauma unit.

No light is seeping under the door to Laura's room, so I turn the handle noiselessly and slide across the lintel.

Someone else is in the bed.

I moan, softly, and slump back against the doorframe.

I am prepared for a lot, but not the sight of Mulder, sprawled face-down on a hard leather couch in the waiting room the Hospital Center uses for bereaved families. The fog that permeates my thoughts is suddenly shot through with sharp pain: his long body is crumpled as if he too is one of my ever-growing list of dead. I take in my breath swiftly and involuntarily and Mulder hears me. He doesn't even have the energy to roll to his feet with the grace which is all his own; just turns his head to see who's here and shuts his eyes in pain. "Why the fuck are you back, Krycek? Ready to answer my question?" he whispers harshly. It's too much for me; my vision whirls crazily and I have to close my eyes abruptly.

After a few seconds I take a deep breath. I cross the room almost silently,

but the quiet is so complete that my footfalls seem to echo in the hush. The harsh fluorescence of the overhead lights bears down on me. I hate overhead lighting, it makes everything too black-and-white. I prefer to let shadow and light blend into each other, creating patterns of smoke and silence in moonlit rooms. I sink to my knees next to the couch and Mulder, as I knew he would, reaches out and grabs the neck of my shirt. "Laura died," he says harshly. I knew it already, but somehow hearing the words brings it home to me. I barely have time to register a faint surprise at the depth of my reaction before he says, "Why are you here?", and slaps me hard, open-palmed, across the face. Iknow he's repeating himself, but I'm really having a hard time coming up with a good response. I'm not even sure I know myself why I'm here.

When I don't respond, just hang there in his grip, his eyes narrow. He inhales and stops suddenly, suspicious. "Have you been drinking?" He shakes me, and I suppose my response -- or rather, lack thereof -- is enough to convince him. "You have. You've been somewhere getting drunk off your ass, getting laid and laughing it up." His rage is so great it immobilizes him; he can't do a damn thing because he can't think of anything bad enough for me. He is so close to what I've been doing, and so far, that I can't help myself: I really do start to laugh, and somewhere around the time he's made up his mind where to start hitting me, it turns to tears.

"No, Mulder, I haven't been laughing it up," I say tiredly. "I got drunk and I got laid. Yeah. More or less. And I came back...I came back because I needed to say some things.

"I didn't have anything to do with her getting shot. I told you before that I wouldn't do that, and I'm telling you again." I make myself look into his eyes, but they are so blank that it hurts to watch them, and I drop my gaze again. "I wouldn't hurt you that way anymore because I...I...I love you. I love you, Fox William Mulder, and I am totally incapable of hurting you on purpose now."

At least he's not hitting me yet. Emboldened and rapidly sobering, I go on. "That's why I came back to D.C., Mulder, to tell you that. When I found...her... at your apartment I was knocked for a loop, jealous and furious. I went to Scully and she told me to come talk to you today. OK, I admit, I had it in mind to do more than just talk. But I swear by everything you believe in that forcibly removing her wasn't in my mind more than a couple seconds. Then...this afternoon...when you called me those things, Mulder, it hurt. It hurt so much I couldn't deal and I got drunk and then I got screwed, and Mulder it wasn't any fun, believe me. I...don't want to be those things you said. And I am so sorry about Laura --" I have to break off, the look on his face is overwhelming me. He is trying so hard to keep from crying in front of me that his eyes have taken on that luminous look which comes from saturation. I can't stand it. I reach up, gently loosen his grip on my shirtfront, and start to rub his back. Softly, with the delicacy I might give to holding a lightening bug, I brush my lips across his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and finally his mouth. Hedoesn't resist and carefully I start to lick away the tears he can't keep from falling any longer. I kiss him one last time and lean back into the death grip he has taken on my shoulders.

"I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I love you, Mulder. Mulder, you have to believe me. I'll die if you don't. I am so sorry -- " I break off, voice choking with tears, and put my head on his shoulder. His knee-jerk reaction is to raise the closest hand and make as if to hit me, but he hesitates and doesn't swing. Instead he brings the hand down helplessly and runs it along my scalp. Then he sits up on the couch and tugs me with him. My body follows his without any conscious instruction from my mind. He tentatively strokes my hair.

"Sleep, Krycek," he whispers. "We'll talk about it in the morning. Sleep, sleep, sleep," and he cradles me against his shoulder until I do.

When I wake up he's gone, of course. I am cramped and sore from sleeping doubled-up on the couch and I have a serious headache. I groan and somehow manage to stagger upright. I seem to be the only occupant this morning strange, there are usually many deaths a day at this hospital. I am grateful for the respite, though, since it means I don't have to face anyone else quite yet.

Mulder seems to have explained my presence to the nurses somehow, since the one on duty outside gives me a sympathetic smile, which I manage to return with something resembling good grace.

I decide to go to Scully's apartment to regroup. I just pray that Mulder won't be there too. I don't think he will want to see me for a long time. I am so numb inside that I can't even react to that speculation, and dimly, from a long way off inside my brain, I know that this is strange.

Scully has left her spare key with a neighbor, who looks at me disapprovingly but lets me in. I find a long note on the kitchen table, telling me not to go anywhere, she's at Mulder's and will call me later.

I toss two aspirin down my throat, hoping they will drive away some of the pounding hangover headache. Then I walk deliberately into the living room, where I sink into the couch, throw my head back, and cry aloud.

End Part 4.


End file.
